


stink in the nostrils

by murdertrout



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, No mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdertrout/pseuds/murdertrout
Summary: Secret Omega Hannibal is not pleased that he has imprinted on Will Graham. He avenges himself on his biology by getting Will Graham put behind bars. But when Will figures out what he’s been hiding and tampers with his suppressants, triggering his first heat, they both get more than they bargained for. Alternate S2b if it were entirely A/B/O porn.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	stink in the nostrils

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self-indulgent Omega!Hannibal porn and is thrilled to ignore all the questions about what A/B/O society would look like! Slightly non-standard dynamics include an element of alpha compulsion that might not be everyone’s cup of tea.

Before Hannibal can even look up at the rumpled brown-haired man in glasses, studiously avoiding eye contact, he catches the scent. It’s unlike anything he’s ever smelled before. It makes his mouth water. It’s keen and sharp and exquisite; he wants to lick it off the edge of a knife. He can feel something in him shift, and he thinks, first, _Alpha_. _My alpha_ then, _No_.

It’s the thing he thinks every time he looks at Will Graham: first, instinctual, desperate, _Alpha_ , and then, clammy, rational, _No._

And then he watches Will Graham shoot Garret Jacob Hobbs, ten times, blood splattered all over those defensive glasses, and he thinks, relieved, _Oh_. _Alpha._

But the relief quickly subsides into frustration. Rationally, this cannot happen. He is surprised his biology is sufficiently strong to imprint on anyone after decades of suppressants. But to obey its absurd, demeaning commands would be... unthinkable. 

Still, the want surprises him. It’s hot and unpleasant and coiled in his belly like a new intestine. He wants to ask asinine questions. _Is he this beautiful to all of you_ , he wants to ask. Is it this delightful and endlessly fascinating to you, what he will do next, what he will say next? Are there reasons for you to think of him when he’s not there? Do you feel flayed open when he smiles? Do you want to see him covered in blood, do you want to feel his teeth bared against your throat? Does he constantly prey on your thoughts? Do you want him to see you?

He has never experienced this before, this desire to stop mid-sentence, drop to his knees, and present. It’s bestial, incomprehensible. It feels as though it was intended for someone else. 

Rationally, he hates it. He wants to be rid of it. To cede so much dominion over himself is infuriating. He has always stood aloof from his biology. This will not interfere. Even if the sensation itself is – temptingly exquisite. 

No. He will— take from Will Graham what Will Graham has taken from him. Systematically. He will poison his mind and he will take his freedom and he will force him to look in the mirror and be startled by what he sees. He will leave Will Graham just as defenseless as Will Graham has left him. It is just and right.

When the doors of the BSHCI close behind Will he thinks, good. Finally. Safe. Will recognizes his hand in it. It doesn’t matter what Will recognizes. He’s free of him. He did not let the omega in him get the better of him. 

But then he feels the ache. There is an ache associated to being without him. It is worse than the ache of his presence. 

And every time he visits the BSHCI he feels Will Graham watching him. Will Graham’s eyes on him. Will Graham, hating him, rethinking everything, seeing the slow-motion smashing of their friendship and rewinding the film and watching the bits fly together. He thinks he can see it, the moment it clicks into place. The moment Will looks in his eyes and thinks, _Omega?_ The whole room around them goes still. Will’s caged. There’s nothing he can do. But a wondering smile slides up across Will’s face. Hannibal looks at him, at his burgeoning expression of triumph, and thinks, _Alpha._

Then, _Earn it._

*

“Does anyone else know?” Will asks, when the door of the visitation room shuts. “What you are?”

“What am I?”

“I know you’re the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will says. “And the copycat. I know what you did to me. To – Abigail. I mean, does anyone else know the _other_ thing?”

“What other thing?” Hannibal asks, placidly. He tries to keep from looking away. It is strange to have to resist the urge to look down in submission. He had better increase his suppressants, he thinks. Or maybe there is something about being confined in the zoo-like settings of the BSHCI, all cages and bars and no comforts, that makes Will seem more strongly _alpha_ than usual. That makes it harder to think around him. That makes the animal instinct predominate. 

“I’m sure Dr. Chilton would be quite surprised,” Will says, a glance at the camera. “To know you’re holding out on him.”

“What am I holding out?”

Will leans back in his chair, takes a pointed sniff. 

“You smelled me,” Hannibal says. 

“Yes,” Will says. He shuts his eyes, as though he’s savoring it. “I can smell you now, Dr. Lecter.”

“Oh,” Hannibal says, calm mask of indifference firmly in place, as something shifts within him. There is a faint prickling sensation that suggests that if it were not for the suppressants, he would have slick leaking down his leg. “What do I smell like?”

Will snorts. “Brimstone,” he says. Hannibal can’t repress the faint sign of amusement that crosses his face.   
  


*

When he next visits the BSHCI something is immediately the matter. Everything smells stronger. The alpha guards give him a look. Almost like revulsion. He can’t interpret it.

He settles behind the table with the crime photographs to wait for Will. When Will enters he watches his eyes fall shut just a second and then flick immediately open. And then Will is looking at him, deliberately, pointedly, almost hungrily. He feels something loosen inside himself. If he didn’t know better he would know immediately what this is. And then he knows. 

He is absolutely meticulous about his suppressants and there must be something the matter. He is absolutely meticulous about his suppressants and this simply cannot be happening. He is absolutely meticulous about his suppressants.

“Dr. Lecter?” Will asks. It’s hard and a little cold, closed to him. He wonders if Will can smell the fevered waves of panic on him.

He looks up, tries to look unperturbed.

“Dr. Lecter,” Will says, “are you going into _heat_?”

Hannibal looks at him. He’s biting his lip shut around the things that want to escape from his mouth. It feels like a Pandora’s box of irretrievable evils. I can’t possibly be, he wants to say, but he is terrified that what will come out is, _alpha._

“You are,” Will says. Something undefinable flickers across his face, Hannibal tries to memorize it; rapture and then horror in swift succession. “I can _smell_ it on you,” Will says. Then smiles. The smile is satisfied, predatory, new. Something Hannibal has only pictured before. “You must hate this, Dr. Lecter. To lose control of yourself, to be reduced to something... bestial by a sweet fever eating away at your brain. It’s not how you’d ever want to be seen, is it?” Will’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble. “ _Omega?_ ”

Hannibal tries with everything that is in him to resist making the sound he makes next, the low _pleased_ rumbling in his chest and throat. He tries to observe the sound dispassionately as it escapes him. _So this is what it sounds like when you purr,_ he thinks. _Fascinating_ . The low thrum of want is louder now, more difficult to hear his thoughts over. He can feel slick starting to run down his thighs. It’s really happening. The suit is going to be ruined. He must leave this visitation room now, his mind thinks. Now, now, now. But everything in his body is rebelling against it. Leave? When _he’s_ here? Your _alpha_?

Will looks a little startled by the sound Hannibal has produced. 

“You’d better go, Dr. Lecter,” Will says. “ _I’m_ not much help to you in my present state.” He gestures at himself with his manacled hands. He looks unaccountably pleased. No. Accountably.

“You did this,” Hannibal breathes. His voice sounds unfamiliar to him. He has the small miserable satisfaction of watching Will freeze at the sound of it.

“Did I?” Will asks. “I’m behind bars, Hannibal. Thanks to you. I don’t have agency in the world, do I? How could I possibly have?”

“You’re clever,” Hannibal says, has to clamp his mouth shut around the _alpha_ that wants to follow it. “There would be ways. You tampered with them, somehow. You wanted to reduce me to this. And now you have.” 

“Pity for you, then, that I’m stuck here,” Will says. It’s strange watching Will scent him. He watches Will give into it for a second, test the bonds of his handcuffs, before catching himself. “And not out there, where I could assist you.”

“You believe I would want your assistance?”

“I believe,” Will says, and his lip curls a little, showing teeth, “that it’s the only thing you want, omega.” _Oh,_ Hannibal thinks. _He’s perfect._ The word is supposed to be demeaning but it sounds _right_ in his mouth, like an admission, an allusion to a secret world already opened between them.

Hannibal notices now that Will is not sitting but coiled, poised to strike.

“You’d better go,” Will says. “Leave before you make a spectacle of yourself, presenting for me right here on this table. It smells like your suit’s already ruined. And you’ve got to walk out past the orderlies and guards smelling like _that._ ”

“Like what?” Hannibal just manages to ask, and he wonders if Will detects in his tone the triumph at having asked it, at having seen the opening, even as he can feel the slick starting to gather on his inner thighs and the sweat beading at his temples. Will has played this a little too well. He has not let go quickly enough.

“Like.” He watches Will swallow. “No one’s idea of Heaven.”

“Not yours,” Hannibal says, his pants are uncomfortably wet, he can see that Will is impressed, begrudgingly, by his composure.

“No,” Will says, and there’s something feral in his smile; he rises from the chair and strains against his restraints to press his nose against Hannibal’s neck, his vulnerable throat, and Hannibal _lets him_. He inhales deeply; Hannibal can feel the tickle of his stubble, that his nose is cold. It prompts another uncontrollable gush of slick. “Not mine.”

“But I could be,” Hannibal says, quietly. “ _Alpha_.” It feels transgressive out loud. It feels like the filthiest word he’s ever said. The admission. The possibilities. It’s like the first time he tasted human meat. 

Will _growls_ , low and warm and possessive, in his ear. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he says. “It would be impossible, even if I wanted to touch you. Or… taste you. I’m handcuffed to this table.” 

“I thought you were an alpha,” Hannibal says. He tries to make it run cold in his voice, but it comes out like a whimper. He didn’t think himself capable of such a pitiful sound. Will looks discomfited by it, and not un-aroused. He can smell the arousal, he realizes. It’s like Will’s ordinary smell, but sharper. Concentrated. Honed. He hears something metallic snap. The handcuffs, he realizes. And then Will’s up on the table, on his knees, pulling Hannibal in by the forearms, mouthing at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. 

“I told you,” Will says, “don’t say things you don’t mean.” Hannibal is aware of a low, satisfied rumbling sound. Then he realizes he is its origin. That he is purring. He buries his face in Will’s neck, where the scent of him is strongest, inhales. It’s perfect but it’s not enough. He is aware of a growing ache of emptiness. 

“Alpha,” he murmurs. Murmur is the wrong word. It’s an animal noise, low and only intelligible in context. He is starting to be frantic. He is not touching Will in enough places. He slides a hand down the back of his own pants and his fingers come up dripping with slick. He presses them into Will’s mouth and Will sucks, thirstily, desperately. Like he can’t get enough of the taste. It’s perfect but it’s not enough. 

“Hannibal,” Will whispers. It almost sounds reverent. 

“Knot me,” Hannibal breathes, and Will grabs at his belt and starts to tear. 

He is only dimly aware of footsteps beginning to move towards them. Orderlies. There is the sound of alarms and shouting and he feels hands on him, dragging him back. Hands on his — on Will. Will snarls, breaks the grip. He looks absolutely feral. Hannibal has never wanted anything as badly as he wants this. He struggles against the orderlies holding him. “Alpha!” he cries; it sounds wretched. Will howls, actually howls, in response, knocks off the orderlies again, is on him again, it’s a relief, like sinking into cool water, like ice breaking on his tongue, and then they manage to pull him away, he’s zipped uncomfortably into his own skin. Everything feels itchy and hot and wrong and empty. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. He whimpers. Will bites the orderly. They muzzle him. Will is excruciatingly beautiful like this, vicious, terrifying, barely restrained. _Alpha_ , his brain chants, _alpha_. Hannibal bites ferociously down on a high, desperate, undignified whine.   
  
The next orderly has a sedative ready.

After that it comes in flashes.

Someone puts a blanket around his shoulders. An orderly. A beta. He’s in an office. Slowly, he comes back to himself. His pants are unsalvageably soaked. His mind feels fogged. He is so empty it’s painful. 

“It’s going to be all right,” Chilton says, unreassuringly, from what feels like a long way away. He toys with his cane. Hannibal is shaking. Under the blanket he still feels cold and hot and wrong. “Fortunately, we were able to separate you before things got too far, so no harm done.” 

“Fortunately,” Hannibal spits. 

“I must confess,” Chilton says, “I’m a bit surprised by _you_ , Dr. Lecter. Perhaps I should be hurt to have been thus far so entirely ignorant of your biology. You are a rarer find than anyone guessed. If you are still in the market for – more, ah, eligible alphas.” He twirls the cane. Waits. 

“Frederick,” Hannibal says, “fuck off.” 

“Frederick, fuck off’” Chilton parrots back. “You’re rude when you’re in heat, Doctor. Though… “ Chilton fixes him with a look. “I have a distinct recollection of you _begging_ for Will Graham’s knot. Will Graham, the _copycat_ killer.” Chilton frowns. “Perhaps I should be flattered that I’m not, after all, your type.” 

*

He’s not sure how exactly he makes it home. He only knows that he does. 

The heat is excruciating. He feels reduced; he feels empty; he feels so unsated that he might burst. He thinks only of Will the entire time the heat lasts. Think is too civilized a word. He is drunk and half-deranged on the possibilities of their bodies. On the memory of Will’s growl. On the feeling of Will’s mouth against his neck. On Will’s mouth around his fingers, lapping at his slick. On Will’s vicious protectiveness as he was hauled off, howling. It all coalesces into a deep-seated throb of want _want_ want. He tries to take refuge in his mind palace but the whole place smells of Will. It is a miserable, humiliating three days. But he takes consolation in the thought that Will provoked it. He takes consolation in the second thought that Will was not unmoved by it. He thinks of Will biting the orderly. It’s good but it’s not enough. He vows never to spend another heat alone. He has never felt so vulnerable before. It is terrifying to want. It is frightening to be so open, to have someone lodged so deeply, even in his hiding places. He hopes no one will ever see him like this. No. He hopes Will will see him like this. That last hope is the most terrifying thing of all.


End file.
